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"How long have you been in this country?"
She began to hold up her hands and to count on her fingers. She pointed out seven fingers.
"Seven days," she said.
"Are you lonesome, homesick?"
"O yes, very."
I took her in my arms and hugged her. I felt her stiffening in my arms as she was not
expecting such reaction from me. I was a perfect stranger.
"O I'm glad God has brought you to America," I told her. "I think God has brought you to
City Hospital that I might meet you."
The little girl wore a white tunic-like dress -- Nehru style. It reached to her knees, and then
below that she had on what we might call pantaloons, very narrow at the ankles, but sort of
billowing out above them. Around her shoulders, with both ends hanging down in the back was a
two-and-a-half-yard sheer chiffon scarf. It was indeed a surprise to see such a figure dressed in
clean, white clothes in such conditions as the ward presented.
"How do you manage to keep your clothes so beautiful and white?" I questioned.
"It is very hard," she said, "I did not know I was going to have to wear white in America,
for in our country the doctors wear printed clothes. I have only two outfits like this and I wash
them every night."
"Well, I'll fix that," I told her. "I'm going home and make you some. What size do you
wear?"
"O I do not know American sizes," she said, "but I live up on the fifth floor of this hospital.
If you'll wait a minute, I'll go up and get one of my dresses and bring it down to you."
She hurried up to the fifth floor and down again, bringing me one of her little dresses,
which looked as though it was about a size three. "Here," she said. "But I'm going to tell you
something -- I don't have any money now to pay you for the material. I don't get paid until the first
of the month."
"O," I hastened to tell her, "you can't pay me for what I do for you, for what I do for you, I
do for Jesus."
"But I don't believe in Jesus. I'm Moslem."